


Tether

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Reaper!AU, Reaper!Marco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-04 22:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1795255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean has dealt with potentially being crazy for a while now. He can see things that no one else can, and that's all well and good, until he stumbles into a world where he is hopelessly out of his league. He has no clue what's going on.</p><p>But hey, that's nothing new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Smile

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, there!
> 
> This is my first fanfiction, uh...ever?
> 
> Be gentle. :)
> 
> I'll probably change the title once I actually know what's going on. Feel free to ask questions or leave suggestions!

I wish I could say that there was a long, complicated story behind the reason that I have been in therapy since I was 7, but there really isn’t. My parents think that I’m insane.

  
    That’s pretty much it.

    Whether I actually am insane or not is still up for debate. I prefer to live under the idea that, no, Jean, you are not insane. Everyone is wrong and you are totally, perfectly, wonderfully sane.

    Luckily, I am a professional when it comes to believing your own bullshit.

    I am totally, perfectly, wonderfully sane.

    Thank you, very much.

    Over the past twelve years, I’ve seen three different therapists. The first one barely lasted two months before he pissed me off so much that I kicked him in the shin and hid under the couch for an hour until my parents came to pick me up. I don’t remember his name. I do remember that his only redeeming quality was his enormous caterpillar-mustache.

    That was a damn good mustache.

    After him, there was a woman named Dr. Nanaba. I honestly don’t think I ever learned her last name. Or maybe Nanaba was her last name. Hell if I know. All I know is that she put up with me through those awkward, angry prepubescent years, and for that she deserves some sort of medal. She didn’t take any of my shit. She might not have been the most openly friendly of people, but she listened, and when she did talk, I respected her enough to listen back. I was a little more upset than my angsty, aloof, 14-year-old self wanted to admit when she moved away.

    Since Dr. Nanaba left, I go to Petra. Petra is a small woman in her mid-30s with two cats and a side-job as a professional woman’s bowler. I did not know that such a profession existed. I now know more about woman’s bowling than I do about football, which should be a testament to A) how much we talk about woman’s bowling and B) how little I know about football.

    Once a week, I head into her office and we talk about her newest bowling trophy, or my classes, or whether I’ve managed to snag myself a girlfriend (I have not). We spend an hour and a half dwindling down her enormous supply of Hershey’s Kisses, talking about nothing and anything.

    Technically, whenever I turned 18, I could have refused to continue the therapy. I’m an adult. My parents don’t have the same authority over me as they did when I was 7. It’s not like the therapy actually helps anything. Continuing it is kind of useless, beyond the fact that I get, like, half a pound of chocolate and a complete history of obscure woman’s sports.  Stopping the therapy is a viable option.

    Of course, then I would have had to pay my own way through college and no way that’s happening. Sure, my parents suck at being parents, but they are also very wealthy. And if money can’t buy my love, it can at least buy my cooperation.

    There’s a part of me that wonders how long they want me to keep this up. It isn’t helping. They know that. Over the past twelve years, I’ve learned how to keep my crazy to myself, but I’ve never been a good liar. A direct, yes-or-no question and they know all they need to know.

    But I guess I can’t really complain. Even if talking to Petra doesn’t really help with the whole crazy thing, it does keep me grounded. School is stressful, work is stressful, my parents thinking I’m crazy is stressful, my potentially being crazy is stressful. Life is stressful. Yeah, the therapy might ruin any chance that I have of making friends, but it also keeps me from punching a hole through the wall whenever I have to spend any amount of time with my parents.

    Pros and cons.

    When Petra folds her hands together on top of her desk, I know what’s coming next. “So, Jean,” she says.

    “Yeah, yeah. Feelings. Got it.” I roll my eyes and move from my spot on her desk to lay on the beat up leather sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling with my arms arms crossed over my chest and my feet hanging off the armrest. “I’m ready to be psycho-analyzed.”

    This is the part of afternoon that is legitimately therapeutical, or something. That part that isn’t just us talking about funny cat videos or the weird guy on her bowling team who constantly hits on her. She smiles apologetically, but it doesn’t matter how much she knows I hate this. She has a job to do. And if we goof off 80% of the time, she still has her “responsibilities” that last 20%. Mostly, those responsibilities include picking me apart to try and figure out why my brain is a mess.

    It’s not like I blame her. We may talk about bowling and gossip like old women, but at the end of the day, she doesn’t believe me. The fact that she treats me like a human being at all is a blessing, and I will always appreciate her for that.

    Even if the knowledge that she thinks I’m insane leaves a sour taste in my mouth and a dead feeling in my stomach.

    It’s a moment before I realize that she’s talking to me, so I push aside my thoughts and try to make my tired brain latch onto what she’s saying.

    “—lasses going?” she’s finishing.

    “Classes?” I shrug. “Good, I guess. Nothing new. My biology teacher somehow set this one kid’s hair on fire.”

    “Oh my God, what?”

    “He’s fine. Just bald.”

    “Really.”

    “Yeah. I think he likes it better that way, anyway.” I grin, thinking of how Connie demanded everyone rub his buzz cut for the first three days after he had to shave it. “I mean, it makes him look 12, but to each their own.”

    Petra hums, thinking. “And how are things with your roommate?”

    I look at her. “Uh, fine, I guess.”

    She raises one eyebrow.

    “I mean, he’s still a little shit, but that’s not changing anytime soon.”

    She grins. “Anything new on the list of offenses?”

    “Other than the fact that he rubs off his Little Shit onto everyone else?” I frown. “Do you have any idea how many horse jokes I hear a day, now? It’s ridiculous. Who knew Little Shit was contagious.”

    “That’s not news,” Petra says with a smile. “I’m a therapist, Jean. I can diagnose Little Shit a mile away.”

    “Especially if they’re upwind.”

    She snorts, writing notes discreetly onto the notepad that sits on her desk. I try to ignore the scratching of her pen, try not to wonder what she’s writing about me. It’s not like it matters, anyway. Regardless of what she writes down, I’ll still be crazy when I walk out of her office. It’s not like she’s thinking anything I don’t already know.

    I stare at the ceiling tiles while she keeps up a stream of easy conversation. It’s not that much different than what we were doing before, but the questions are more loaded when I know that she’s trying to pick through my words. I don’t answer as easily. My stomach feels heavy. It’s not an unusual feeling. I’ve felt it at least once a week since I was 7.

    “Have you had any nightmares recently?” she inquires, tapping the end of her pen on the paper absently.

    Oh, yeah. “Nope.”

    Her eyes narrow. “Is that so?”

    They’re just getting worse. “I haven’t had any for about three weeks.”

    Petra writes a little more, but I can tell by the crease between her eyebrows that she doesn’t believe me. I don’t care as long as she doesn’t push for the truth.

    Nothing good ever happens when I tell people the truth.

    “So I guess that new medication is helping, huh?” she continues, not looking up from what she’s writing for a second.

    “Guess so.” But it isn’t. It just makes the dreams worse. I don’t take it. I tried. But I can’t.

    She sets the pen down and leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. Her eyes, usually light and friendly, are sharp and analytical. She taps her finger against her arm, not saying anything.

    For a minute or two, we just stare each other down. I don’t bother trying to look reassuring.

    After the situation has gotten sufficiently awkward, Petra’s eyes flash towards the clock. Her demeanor softens and she flips my file closed. “That’s about it for this week, I think.”

    With a breath of relief, I sit up on the couch, bones creaking like an old man. I stretch before standing the give Petra our customary parting hug. She gives me an extra squeeze. “I’ll talk to the doctors about your prescription,” she says softly.

    I feel myself tense up, but she rubs my back soothingly one last time before pulling away. “Say hello to your parents for me, will you?”

    My smile feels shaky, but she doesn’t comment on it. I grab my bag from beside the couch and walk out of her office into the waiting room. I wave goodbye to the receptionist and push open the door with my shoulder.

    The sun is too bright after sitting in the dark office for so long. I’m nearly blinded. Luckily, I know my way around this part of town well enough to navigate while visually impaired. I blink away spots as I sling my bag over my shoulder.

    My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I answer it without looking at the ID. I know who it is. “Mom.”

    “Jean, sweetie!”

    Whatever shreds of a good mood I had now melt into annoyance.

    She always calls right after my sessions. It sounds almost sweet, but I know it’s just to make sure I’m actually attending. She doesn’t trust Petra not to cover for my absences.

    “Hey, Mom. What’s up?” I sound bored.

    That’s fine.

    I am bored.

    “Oh, you know. The usual. Oh! You know Franz, from church?”

    “Mhmm.” I set my responses to autopilot as I look for a good place to get coffee.

    “He’s engaged!” I hear her clap giddily on the other end of the line, like she’s 14 instead of 51.

    “I thought he was already engaged.”

    “Oh, no! He wasn’t.”

    “I’m pretty sure he was.”

    “No!” she insists. “I mean, he was talking about it. But no.”

    “Oh, right. Talking about it. Mom, he and Hanna have been dating since eighth grade. Trust me, they were already engaged.”

    “But now she has a ring!”

    I let out a slow puff of air, but I still feel just as irritated. “Okay. Hanna has a ring. Yay!” I twirl my finger in a display of mock enthusiasm, and it makes me feel a little better even though Mom can’t see it.

    “Franz is in your year, isn’t he?” she asks, not-so-innocently.

    “No.”

    “Isn’t he?”

    “Nope.”

    “Oh.”

    “I’m not engaged, in case you were wondering.”

    “Oh, of course not, dear.”

    I ignore the pitying tone in her voice as I push into the coffee shop. “Right, so, is that it? Because I’ve got a fever, and the only prescription is more coffee.”

    “That’s not the line.”

    “Isn’t it?” I mock her earlier tone. I don’t think she gets it. “Look, I’ve got to go, Mom. Okay? Petra says hey.”

    “Okay, Jean. I’ll see you this weekend for dinner, right?”

    “YeahofcourseMomgottagobye.”

    “Alright, I’ll see y—”

    Call ended.

    I run a hand through my dirty blonde hair and shove my phone into my pocket. I don’t bother looking at the menu before I step up to the counter. I don’t need any of that fancy, macchiato shit. There is a freckled guy around my age wiping down the counter with a rag. “Can I get a large, regular coffee, please?” I grumble, clearly in a bad mood. I have a headache threatening to turn my brain to mush waiting in the wings.

    “Alrighty!” the cashier practically sings, entering my order into the register.

    Alrighty?

    I can’t stop myself from giving the kid behind the counter a look that is far more appropriate for someone that just said they would pay me to kick them in the balls. But seriously. Alrighty. It’s like I took a wrong turn and ended up on Sesame Street, what even is this.

    The cashier doesn’t seem to register the inner turmoil he is causing me. He is in happy, freckled oblivion. He’s smiling at the computer screen, or maybe he isn’t smiling at anything. Maybe he’s just smiling because he likes to smile.

    You are in college, Mystery Cashier. College students don’t smile. They weep in misery and drink their weight in caffeine.

    He’s eyes flick from the register to me, and I must have been staring at him pretty intensely, because I can practically see the discomfort growing in his eyes. If I weren’t so grumpy, I would stop staring out of embarrassment.

    But I am really grumpy.

    To my surprise, he shakes off the discomfort on his own. He doesn’t just smile, then, he freaking beams. He grins like he is genuinely happy to see me, like I’m not a complete stranger. His cheeks dimple. His eyes crinkle at the corners. He even tilts his head slightly to the side. “That will be $4.36, sir.”

    Beyond all reason, I feel my cheeks grow a little warmer. I dig through my pockets and grab a wad of crinkled dollar bills. I mean, it’s literally at least $30 in ones. I guess that’s what happens when you spend all your money on McDonalds and Chinese take-out. I spend a moment sifting through them to see if I have any bigger bills, but I don’t, so whatever. I count out five and shove the rest back into my pocket.

    The cashier takes the money with a weird look on his face. And by weird, I mean slightly less weird than his incessant smiling. He inspects the money carefully before picking it up and putting it into the register.

    “What are you doing?” I ask. The question comes out less harsh than I meant it to. The one time I’m actually trying to sound pissy and I just sound slightly uncomfortable.

    “Checking for glitter,” says the other boy happily. Like that’s normal.

    “Wha…” My face turns beat red. Probably in anger. Yeah. Definitely in anger. Nothing else.

    Anger. Definitely. Yes. “I’m not a stripper, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

    I’m absolutely certain I sound pissy now, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “Hmm. You sure?” he asks, handing me back my change.

    “Uh, yeah. Pretty sure.”

    “That’s a shame.” He reaches back to grab a cup for my coffee, and he’s still smiling.

    “Uh…”

    Smooth, Jean. Smooth.

    “You’d probably make a lot of money,” continues the cashier easily, writing on the cup with a marker and starting the coffee machine.

    And, because this never happens, I have no idea what to say. I don’t get hit on on a good day, much less when my aura could kill any foliage within a ten foot radius. So I stick with the classic, “Uh…” because that’s been working out really well for me so far.

    He just nods like I said something intelligent and pours the coffee into my cup. “I’d pay.” He slides the cup over to me with an innocent smile.

    I almost say, “Uh…” again. I manage to choke out a strangled, “Thanks,” instead.

    The guy just laughs, and at this point I am completely lost and have no idea what to do. His laugh makes my stomach feel weird. Or maybe it’s just indigestion or something. “Are you thanking me for the coffee or for saying casually that I would pay to see you strip?”

    “Both, I guess.” I laugh a little.

    “There it is!” There he goes again, looking like I just popped out of a bottle and sang  a rousing rendition “Never Had a Friend Like Me”.

    “Uh…” I blink.

    “You look a lot better when you aren’t frowning,” says the cashier casually with a small smile. He grabs something from under the counter. “Here.” He slides an enormous cookie into a small paper bag and hands it to me.

    I stare at the baked good in his hand blankly. “I didn’t order that.”

    He shrugs. “On the house.” He grins. “You look like you need a pick-me-up.”

    “Isn’t that what the coffee is for?”

    “Cookies are better,” he insists seriously. He shakes the bag in his hand a little bit. “Come on. You’re in college, right? It’s free. College kids can’t resist free things.”

    Well, that’s true. Reluctantly, I take the cookie from him and grab my slightly forgotten drink from the counter. “Thanks.”

    “No problem.” He smiles like we’re old friends. “I hope you have a better day.”

    Not wanting to say “thanks” three times in less than two minutes, I nod and head to a table by the window. I put a couple of packets of sugar in my coffee and call it good before taking a sip. The liquid gives me third-degree burns on the way down, but I’m tough. I can take it.         Despite the fact that I had two cups this morning, it still feels like I’ve been under-    caffeinated for at least a month. I rub the dark circles under my eyes tiredly. My gaze falls on the cookie, still in the little bag, and I can’t stop myself from looking at the young man behind the counter.

  
    A couple has just walked in, holding hands in a cloying, disgusting, public display of affection (I refuse to admit that I’m simply bitter that I’m sitting at a table alone on a Saturday afternoon). The cashier smiles at them. My eyes narrow. Did he smile at me like that? No. No, that smile isn’t nearly bright. My smile was way better. And I got a cookie. And I would make a good stripper. I bet he doesn’t tell them that they would be good strippers.

    My eyes wander from the couple back to the cashier. I am a bizarre mixture of bored, lonely, and curious. That’s why I do it. I don’t think about it too much. I will feel guilty if I think about it. I just do it.

    I look at his chains.

    The chains were always there, everywhere. An intricate lacework of ties and bonds and connections. Between people. Between things. They are everywhere, and everyone has them. Even recluses. Even hobos. Even that random old man that shouts “Get off my lawn!” at all the kids and only smiles at his cats.

    People want to be tied down. Even those who say they don’t, they’re just kidding themselves. People will tie themselves down to people, to objects, to places, to memories. Anything. They decide what they think is important, and they use those things to tether themselves down to the surface of the earth, like they’re balloons instead of people. Like they’ll just float away if there isn’t a hand holding firmly onto their strings.

    The couple waiting on their order is suddenly surrounded by a web. The link between them is pure white, thick and strong. My mouth twitches towards a smile. They’re happy. I guess that’s good. They both also have strings connecting to the bright, shiny ring on the girl’s finger. An engagement ring. If I sift through the mess, I can pick out individual ties, and if I look hard enough, I can see what they are connected to. I see an old, rickety bench. I see a cabin by the sea. I see an old man and woman, sitting in rocking chairs on the porch of a colorful house. I see a really fat cat that looks more like a throw pillow than an animal.

    But I’m not really interested in them. I’m interested in _him_.

    You know, in the totally non-creepy way that people are interested in complete strangers.

    Totally normal.

    I shift my focus back to him.

    I’m not really sure what I expect, but this isn’t it. Instead of a tangled web of tethers and bonds, the cashier is surrounded by only a handful. While the rest of the people the cafe are nearly blotted out by their ties, his face is the only one that I can actually see. I’ve never seen anything like it.

    Somehow, his lack on connections make the few that he has seem sacred. Untouchable. For a hesitant moment, I consider looking at them, but there are so few. There is so little that is important to him. But the bonds are so strong. If looking at the ties is usually like looking at a person’s diary without permission, this would be the equivalent of an impromptu prostate exam.

    With a sigh, I tune out the ties and take another sip of my drink. It doesn’t burn the roof of my mouth this time, so that’s nice.

    When I set it back down on the table, I notice what he’s written on the cup. I didn’t tell him my name. I kind of want him to know my name.

    I smile and take another drink.

    I’m _That Guy Who Unfortunately Isn’t A Stripper_.

    I guess that’s good enough for now.


	2. Piss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean has a traumatic biology class and gets more coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!
> 
> Thanks so much for all of the kudos. :) 
> 
> I'm sorry not a lot happens in this chapter, plot-wise...there is just a lot of banter. But banter is nice. This fic is me trying to bully away my writer's block, so bear with me.
> 
> This is unbeta'd, btw. Also I wrote half of it at 2 in the morning in a fit of self-induced insomnia. Yay!

”Jean.”  
  
    No response.  
  
    “Jean.”  
  
    “Five more minutes…”  
  
    In my half-asleep state, I vaguely register Eren sighing, presumably in resignation. Good. Resign yourself, Jaeger. All attempts to wake me will be met with failure. Under no circumstances am I moving from this bed within the next—  
  
    Something soft, freezing cold, and unpleasant smacks me in the face.  
  
    I flail, my arms and legs tangling in my blankets as I propel my forehead straight into the bunk bed above it. The smack is loud, but it’s a little hard to hear it over the sound of my own effeminate shrieking. I lay back down against my pillow with a groan, massaging my forehead and staring at the offending item that has now fallen off of my face and into my lap. I look at Eren, half- incredulous. “You just hit me in the face with a sponge.”  
  
    He shrugs, leaning against one of the legs of the bunk bed, looking down at me as I glare at him. “You wouldn’t wake up.”  
  
    With another groan, I fling the sponge at him. He catches it with a slight smirk, unbothered by the enormous wet spot I’ve left on his shirt. “What did you even do, put it in the freezer?” I demand, rolling out of bed clumsily.  
  
    “I’m not that heartless,” he says, clearly amused by my morning fumbling. “Then it’d be like hitting you with a block of ice. Just the fridge.”  
  
    “Oh, the fridge! That’s fine, then,” I grumble sarcastically, pulling on jeans over my boxers and running a hand through the shaggy section of my undercut. Actually, it’s all a little shaggy - I haven’t had the time (or the motivation) to get it cut recently.  
  
    “Maybe a block of ice will be the back up plan.”  
  
    “Can’t wait.”  
  
    “Blame Armin,” says Eren. He’s casually getting the sponge wet in the sink and placing it back in the refrigerator, like I won’t notice. I vow to destroy the demon sponge at the next opportunity. “It was his idea.”  
  
    See? His Little Shit has corrupted even Armin. Although a part of me thinks that Armin was born a little shit. He’s just a lot better at hiding it. “Why does Armin care about me waking up? Why do you, for that matter?”  
  
    “Man,” Eren rolls his eyes. “If I didn’t make you get up, you’d stay in bed until 3 in the afternoon. You’re like Sleeping Beauty, only nobody loves you enough to kiss you awake and you're ugly as shit.”  
  
    I’m still half asleep, despite the assaulting sponge, so all I can offer as a come-back is an angry grunt and a middle finger.  
  
    Eren sighs. “You’re first class starts in 15 minutes, Jean.” He gives me a little mocking salute and leaves the room. “Try to put your shirt on the right way this time.”  
  
    “That was one time! Fuck you,” I shout behind him, but if he hears me he clearly doesn’t care. It’s not like it’s an unusual statement. It’s basically our equivalent of “Have a good day! Hope your classes go well. Don’t get hit by a bus or something.”  
  
    With a disgruntled sigh, I pull on the first shirt I see that doesn’t smell like something crawled inside it and used it as it’s final resting place, rush-gargle some Listerine, grab my bag, and rush out the door. I pause for a moment to stare longingly at the empty coffee pot beside Eren’s bed, but there’s no time. So I mourn silently and rush down the hallway.  
  
~  
  
I have no idea how I ended up in biology first thing in the morning, but good God, it is impossible to deal with Hanji that early without being properly caffeinated. Like, I dealt with her talking to her plants like they’re people. I dealt with that time when she tried to recreate the plant from Little Shop of Horrors and wanted us to offer our blood to a satanic-looking Venus Flytrap. I even [mostly] dealt with that one time when she cut off a chunk of my hair and said she was going to use it for experiments.  
  
    But when she asks me to pee in a cup?  
  
    That is where I draw the line.  
  
    “What did she even want that for?” asks Sasha, taking an enormous bite of her cheeseburger. I don’t know why she has a cheeseburger in her purse, but I tend not to be surprised when it comes to Sasha and food.  
  
    “How the hell should I know?” I snap, rubbing my temples. “All I know is she pulled me aside before class, handed be a 44 oz. soda from the gas station and a cup, and told me to let her know when I needed to piss.” I shudder.  
  
    “No reason?” asks Connie, who also shudders. He rubs his hand over his buzz cut, like he remembers the horrors of being Hanji’s victim.  
  
    “Nope.” I rub my eyes. “I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that she wants my piss, or the fact that I can think of absolutely no reason why it would have anything to do with biology.” I groan and set my head on the cool table of the library desk. “I need coffee.”  
      
    “That will just make you poop, not piss,” points out Sasha absently, shoving half of the burger into her mouth.  
  
    I grunt in response and roll my neck until it pops. The dark circles under my eyes look more like bruises than the side effects of exhaustion. I’ve been getting less and less sleep recently. Eren is right, I would sleep until 3 if I could, but even then I don’t feel awake. I’ve never been a good sleeper. I sleep too lightly, and I can’t remember the last time I woke up feeling rested. On the rare occasions that I do somehow manage to sleep deeply enough to dream…that’s when the nightmares come.  
      
    Making use of my excellent ability to ignore things, I push all thoughts of nightmares aside. They just make me feel even heavier.  
  
    “Maybe pooping will help him stop looking constipated,” offers Connie, poking the crease between my eyebrows. “Stop thinking so hard. You’ll hurt yourself.” For a second, I forget what we were talking about.  
  
    Oh, yeah. Coffee.  
      
    And piss.  
  
    “What time is it?” I asks, throwing the strap of my messenger bag over my shoulder.  
  
    Connie checks his phone. “Eh…almost 1.” Neither Connie nor Sasha looks surprised when I get up without saying anything. They simply move slightly to the side so that I can slip my legs out from under the table. “Where are you going?”  
      
    “Coffee,” I say flatly.  
  
    Sasha and Connie look at each other. With a shrug, she shoves the rest of her food into her mouth, dusts of her hands, tightens her ponytail, and stands up to follow. “Coffee sounds good.”  
  
    “You hate coffee,” I point out stiffly.  
  
    “But I love muffins. And guess what is often sold with coffee?” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively.  
  
    “Muffins.” Connie gives her a high-five.  
  
    I guess I should be thankful for Connie and Sasha. It’s not like anyone else wants to spend any time with me. Honestly, every time they sit next to me, I’m always a little bit surprised that they haven’t realized how much of an ass I am. Actually, I’m sure they’ve realized. It’s kind of hard to miss. But they certainly don’t care.  
  
    It’s been three days since my last therapy session. Three days since my weird conversation with the coffee guy. I don’t even notice my feet are taking me there until I’m at the door.  
      
    Connie and Sasha don’t see to mind that I passed at least two other coffee places on the way here. They’re content to babble behind me, joking and pushing and laughing, and I kind of wish that I could join in. But then Sasha shoves Connie, who falls into me, and all of a sudden my face is pressed up against the glass of the door, and I realize how much I hate joking and pushing and laughing.  
  
    I peel my cheek off of the door and make awkward eye-contact with an important looking man who had been about to use the exit when my face got in the way. I ignore the way my face heats up and kick Connie violently in the shin before moving out of the way.  
      
    “It wasn’t even my fault!” he wails, clutching his leg.  
  
    “Jean is a gentleman, he would never kick a girl,” says Sasha, pushing her way past them and sticking her tongue out at Connie. The three of us get in the line of semi-bedraggled college students. We fit right in.  
  
    “Since when have you been a girl?” asks Connie, genuinely bewildered.  
  
    “And since when have I been a gentleman?” I ask, flicking her firmly on the nose.  
  
    Sasha yelps, slapping my hand away. “Oh, that’s right! You’re more of the dark-brooding-mysterious-irritable type.” She throws the back of her hand to her forehead and swoons against Connie dramatically. “Oh, my! Such a dashing young man! I bet he wears leather underwear and guy-liner. I can already see us riding off into the sunset on his Harley.”  
  
    Connie clutches her shoulders. “Maybe, if we’re lucky, he’ll give us the finger.” He appears to be lost in fangirl-paradise.  
  
    She claps her hands excitedly. “If we take a picture, do you think he’ll sign it for us?” Sasha squeals, fanning her face with her hand like a Southern Belle.  
  
    “No, he’d probably just beat us up for approaching him,” observes Connie. “Or maybe we’d just keel over and die if we get too close. What do you think, Jean?”  
      
    “That depends,” I say flatly, too used to this. “Is it before or after coffee?”  
  
    “For the sake of our lives, let’s say after.”  
  
    “You’d probably make it out alright.”  
  
    “How bad would the hospital bill be?”  
  
    “Manageable.”  
      
    “Perfect.” Connie is already digging through his pockets for his phone. “Smile!”  
  
    I give him the finger.  
  
    “And…wonderful.” He grins at the screen. “It really captures your essence.”  
  
    “Oooo, let me see!” Sasha tackles him from the side. “You even got the coffee machine in the background.”  
  
    “Alright, while you two do that, I’m going to order.” The line has diminished and we’re now at the front. Or, I’m at the front. Connie and Sasha are slightly to the side taking selfies. They don’t bother to answer, and I don’t bother to wait for one.  
  
    The barista isn’t the same one as last time, but I’m not exactly surprised. I really wasn’t expecting to see the other one. That being said, there was still that little flicker of disappointment. I wouldn’t mind having some sort of witty banter with someone other than the two idiots behind me. Something about them just exhausts me. Actually, people exhaust me. All people. Great.  
  
    Behind the counter is a short young woman with blonde hair, a hook nose, and a face completely void of expression. Like, scarily void. She looks so over it that it would be hilarious if it weren’t so intimidating. “How can I help you?” she deadpans.  
  
    “Uh…” I cough awkwardly to the side. “Just a large coffee, thanks.”  
  
    She barely acknowledges me before typing something into the register. “Name?” She grabs a cup and a marker.  
  
    “Jean.” I ignore the fact that she writes _John_ instead and just peel a five out of my pocket. After the last time, I had quickly scrambled to exchange my ones for larger bills. Like, it had turned out fine, but that shit was embarrassing.  
  
    I know that my drink won’t take very long, so I stand fairly close to the counter to wait while Connie and Sasha place their orders. Connie gets something that sounds like a teenager girl’s go-to (it turns out to be more chocolate and whipped cream than coffee) and Sasha orders half of her weight in pastries.  
  
    The barista takes their order blankly, taking their money and handing back their change without so much as a twitch. The only time anything even resembling an emotion crosses her face is when she reaches down to get the cup for Connie’s drink and her hand is met with thin air.  
  
    Even then, she just looks at the vacant space, like staring at it will magically make more cups appear. After a moment, her eyes flicker from the offending emptiness up to the top of a cabinet behind her. I see more cups peeking out from a paper bag, half-hidden underneath a ton of other crap that looks vaguely coffee-y.  
  
    I can practically see the calculations running through her head. _Can I reach that?_ I imagine her thinking. _Maybe if I jump…is it worth the indignity?_  
  
    In the end, she just sighs again. “Marco!” she calls to seemingly no one.  
  
    A voice answers her from the back room. “Yes?”  
  
    “Cups.”  
  
    “What about the cups?”  
  
    “I need more cups.”  
  
    “I’m about to leave.” There is a muffled sound, like whoever is back there accidentally stepped on something in a frantic attempt to finish whatever they were doing. “Where is the step-stool?”  
  
    …  
  
    “Annie, it alright to use the step-stool. No one will judge you.”  
  
    …  
  
    “Okay, hold on. Just a moment.”  
  
    I watch the scene unfold as Annie snaps a lid on my coffee and slides it across the counter. She doesn’t smile. I don’t smile. It’s kind of nice. I don’t bother moving to one of the tables. I just grab a few sugars from a nearby table and wait for the pair of monkeys who call themselves my friends.  
  
    “Marco” emerges from the back room, his face slightly flustered and his hair slightly askew. He’s readjusting his light blue t-shirt, tucking the tag in and smoothing out wrinkles with semi-frantic hands. Despite myself, I grin into my coffee when I recognize the guy from before. “Sorry. You caught me mid-speed change,” he apologizes, rubbing the back of his neck before quickly flattening his hair down.  
      
    Annie either doesn’t care about his excuse or doesn’t care about anything. She just crosses her arms and waits for him to do the manual labor.  
  
    It’s easy to see why she asked him to get the things on the high shelf. I’m above-average myself, but this guy is at least a few inches taller than me. When he reaches up to grab the cups, his shirts lifts up.  
  
    I’m straight. Totally, completely straight. But I can’t help but stare at the sheer mass of freckles that covers the small amount of skin. Like, that’s ridiculous. I’ve seen gingers with fewer freckles.  
  
    With a smile (of course), he hands his co-worker the cups. She doesn’t say anything. She just takes one off of the stack and writes Connie’s name on it before going to make his drink. Marco doesn’t seem to expect any differently. His smile doesn’t falter as he sets the rest of the cups down at their allotted spot and moves out of the way.  
  
    When he steps aside to move out from behind the counter, his eyes meet mine, and his smile grows even wider. “Hey!” he says cheerfully, waving a little. “How goes the stripping?”  
  
    “I paid with a five today, thank you very much.”  
  
    “Wow,” he replies, raising his eyebrows. Impressed. “That’s a good tip. Must have been a pretty good routine.”  
  
    “Always.”  
  
    If his smile could get any wider, it would, but I’m pretty sure that would be impossible without his cheeks splitting. Instead, his expression softens, and it’s a different kind of smile. I can’t really put my finger on it, but it was definitely different.  
  
    Connie and Sasha are standing behind me, looking between us, shocked.  
  
    Again, I can’t really blame them. Like I said, I have a very limited social circle. The reason for that is mostly because I am, as I have said before and will undoubtedly say again, an enormous ass. The biggest of asses. Not a lot of people talk to me, and when they do, I do my best to answer in short, stilted sentences. One word responses are best. They discourage future interaction.  
  
    So, 1) the fact that I seem to know this guy, combined with the fact that 2) I’m actually joking around with him is enough to make even the Dastardly Duo speechless.  
  
    At least for a few seconds. Even that is a miracle.  
  
    Connie throws an arm around my neck and hangs there, sipping from his sad excuse of a coffee, staring at Marco through narrowed eyes. “So…Jean. Who’s your friend, here?” He’s doing his best to sound like an overly protective father, but it’s hard to find him intimidating when he has a chocolate/whipped cream mustache and a haircut that makes him look prepubescent.  
  
    Sasha steps in beside me, linking our arms together before eating half of an apple turnover in one bite. Her mouth is too full to contribute much to the conversation, but she grunts in support.  
  
    I kind of want to slam my head against Eren’s bunk bed again. “Uh…”  
  
    “I thought we’d finally gotten past the ‘uh’ thing,” Marco says with a laugh.  
  
    Connie stares at my cheeks before grabbing my face. “Are you blushing?” He forcibly turns my face to look at Sasha. “Look! I think he’s blushing.”  
  
    “No!” exclaims Sasha through a mouthful of pastry. She also grabs my face, staring deeply into my eyes. “No way. The Great Jean Kirschtein does no blush.” She places her hand on my forehead, testing for a fever. “Are you ill?”  
  
    I swat her hands away. “Get off of me,” I grumble, rubbing my man-handled face.  
  
    Marco is simply looking between the three of us, hiding a grin behind his hand. “So, is The Great Jean Kirschtein your stage name?” He says my name right on the first attempt. That’s a rarity.  
  
    I clear my throat nervously, running my hand through my shaggy undercut.“It’s more of an everyday title.”  
      
    “Ah.” He smiles again, and it goes right to his eyes. “Well, Great Jean Kirschtein, I am the Magnificent Marco Bodt,” he says seriously, holding out his hand.  
  
    Quickly, I move my coffee into my left hand and accept his handshake, although it feels oddly formal considering. “That sounds like a cheesy magician at a kid’s party.”  
  
    “That’s the dream.” Marco grins.  
  
    I’m studiously ignoring the looks Connie and Sasha are trading back and forth. It’s been pretty easy so far, until Sasha pouts and says “I feel like I’m missing something.”  
  
    “Sasha.” Connie releases my neck and walks to my other side, patting her shoulder comfortingly. “I think Jean may have made another friend.”  
  
    “That’s like, 50% more friend,” realizes Sasha, a look of awe blossoming on her face. “Maybe we should get a cake or something. You know, to remember the moment.” She starts working on her second muffin.  
  
    “We could take a picture!” Connie practically sings, pulling his phone out again.  
  
    “Sorry, dude.” I reach over and flick him on the ear. “You’re only allowed one picture a day.”  
  
    “That’s not a rule.”  
  
    “I’m allowed to make up rules when you’re being an idiot. How else will I stay sane?” They both kindly forget to mention the fact that my sanity is kind of on the fence, and for that I’m grateful.  
  
    Despite my obnoxious entourage, Marco doesn’t appear to be running away in fear, so that’s good. “It’s great to meet you guys, but I really need to head out. I’ve got a photography class in 20 minutes.” It doesn’t even look like it’s an excuse to escape. He looks genuinely upset. I almost feel bad, but then he smiles again. “It was nice to finally learn your name, Jean.”  
  
    I stop myself from saying “uh…” and go for a slightly more intelligent sounding, “You too, Marco.”  
  
    With a parting grin and a wave, Marco walks past us and out the door. I don’t notice I’m staring at him until he’s walked past the store’s windows.  
  
    Connie whistles appreciatively. “Okay. He’s smooth. Hello.”  
  
    “Hella smooth,” Sasha agrees, wiping crumbs from her mouth. She pats me on the shoulder. “Maybe, if you guys become friends, some of that will rub off on you and then you won’t be so cripplingly awkward all the time.”     
  
    “I’m certainly not getting any smooth from you two,” I grunt, taking a sip of my drink. It’s almost not hot enough now, but I barely notice.  
  
    “Bah!” Connie puts his sticky, whipped cream-covered fist to his chest. “I am the essence of smooth.”  
  
    “Springer,” says Sasha, comically lowering her voice. “Connie Springer.”  
  
    “Double-O-Idiot just got chocolate all over his shirt.”  
  
    Springer, Connie Springer just looks down, notes the disaster, and shrugs before Sasha pulls a napkin out of her pocket and hands it to him.  
  
    “Come along, children,” I say, finally. “Back to campus we go.”  
  
    “But Mooooooommmmmm,” they whine in unison.  
      
    I ignore them and leave, knowing that they’ll follow. Friends are difficult.  
  
    “Hey, Jean!” Connie calls after a second. “Doesn’t Eren have a photography class next?”  
  
    “What if they’re in the same class?” gasps Sasha. “We can get all of the gossip!”  
  
    “On Marco? God, why?” I frown.  
      
    “Because, silly,” she says, smacking the back of my head. “If you are finally going to level up in the friend department, we have to make sure he’s worth it.”  
  
    “Yeah!” agrees Connie. “We have to make sure there are no skeletons in his closet. He has to be squeaky clean before we agree to let you go on a play-date.”  
  
    “Besides.” Sasha links arms with me again, and we fall into step. “You’re fragile.”  
  
    I snort.  
      
    “Hey, I’m not kidding!” she insists. “We need to make sure he won’t hurt you.”  
      
    “Or make you piss in a cup.”  
  
    I laugh, and I feel lighter than I have in a while.  
  
    Friends are nice, I guess. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think! Comments and critiques are appreciated. :)


	3. Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean really, really hates hospitals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Here it is!
> 
> There is a lot of dialogue, I feel. But I love dialogue. If I could just write dialogue, I would. I suck at everything else. 
> 
> This is all unbeta'd, and I'm not a good editor (oops). If anything is wrong, please tell me, and I'll fix it!
> 
> Also, this starts out in Marco's POV. He's in third person while Jean is in first. --- means a POV change and ~ means a scene change or a time skip. Sorry if that is confusing.

As much as Marco wants to ignore the generic techno music that’s blasting out of his phone right now, he knows he really shouldn’t. With a sigh, he gropes around in his back pocket and pulls out the offending item. “Hello?” One hand holds the phone to his ear and the other swirls the spoon around in his tea absently.  
  
    “What’s with the questioning tone?” asks the voice on the other end of the line brusquely. “Do you not know who this is?”  
  
    “It’s common curtesy.” Much like offering some sort of greeting in return, but Marco knows better than to hold his breath for one. He just smiles softly.  
  
    “Do you know how many fucks I give about common curtesy?”  
  
    “None?”  
  
    “That’s right. None. Not one fuck is given.”  
  
    There is a muffled noise in the background. He hears a loud voice demand that the call be put on speaker. There is a little more shuffling as the older men wrestle with the cell phone. He just stirs his tea, waiting patiently. He’s used to this. This is a common occurrence. After a moment, he clears his throat. “Excuse me?”  
  
    “What?” the voice snaps.  
  
    “Levi, is there a job for me, or should I just…?”  
     “What?” cries a second voice. “We can’t just call to catch up? Talk about school? Or boys? I love talking about boys.”  
  
    “What are you even doing here, Shitty Glasses? Get the fuck off me,” Levi mutters. There’s a loud thunk, which is probably Hanji being pushed from Levi’s lap to the floor.  
  
    “Oh, Ravioli, will my love remain forever unrequited?” Hanji wails. Marco can see her sprawled out on the floor, one hand pressed against her forehead dramatically.  
  
    “Yes.”  
  
    “I’ll break you down one of these days.”  
  
    “You break me down every day, shithead.”  
  
    “Uh…” he says, tapping the spoon on the side of his cup awkwardly. “Guys?”  
  
    “Oh, right!” Hanji claps her hands excitedly. “Job! Responsibility! The fun stuff.”  
  
    Levi snorts. “You still haven’t told me what the fuck you’re doing here. Erwin told me you were banished from business meetings until further notice.”  
  
    “Pffftttt,” Hanji whines. “You blow up one thing and all of a sudden you’re a ‘threat to the safety of others’.”  
  
    “Hanji,” Marco starts, apologetic, taking a sip of his slightly lukewarm tea. “You’ve blown up quite a few things.”  
  
    “Also, the ‘one thing’ in question was a building.” Levi rolls his eyes.  
  
    “Details.” Hanji flaps her hands energetically. “It was a really ugly building. Now they can make a McDonald’s or something! People love McDonald’s! Besides, how am I supposed to make up for it if I’m not here to help?”  
  
    “That’s the point, Shitty Glasses. We don’t want you here.”  
  
    “Leviiiiiiiiiii—”  
  
    Levi ignores her. In fact, there is a muffled grunt of surprise that is probably Levi shoving his hand into Hanji face and pushing her back to the floor. “I’m sending you the details of the job now,” Levi continues, like they had never been interrupted.  
  
    There is a small buzz against his ear, and he sets down his tea to look at the new message. He scrolls through the information quickly. “Shoot,” he mutters.  
  
    “What is it?”  
  
    “Nothing,” he answers with a sigh. “I’m just really not that fond of the hospital jobs.”  
  
    “Yeah,” agrees Hanji sympathetically. “They really suck.”  
  
    “Hanji, you’ve never been on a hospital job. You’ve never been on any job. All you do is fuck up the coffee machine and annoy the shit out of everyone.”  
  
    “Leviiiiiiiii—”  
  
    “Also, you flooded the men’s bathroom three times.”  
  
    “Leviiiiiiii—”  
  
    “I really don’t want to know why you were in the men’s bathroom,” he mutters.  
  
    “I kind of do, actually,” offers Marco, legitimately curious.  
  
    “It was for science!” exclaims Hanji.  
  
    “Of course!” agrees Marco, smiling widely. “What was I thinking.”  
  
    “See, I was trying to figure out the specific properties of the mold that was growing under the urinals—”  
  
    “Hanji.”  
  
    “What, Levi? You talk about shit all the time! I can totally talk about urinals! What do you think, Marco?”  
      
    “About urinals?” he asks. “I’m pro-urinal, I guess.” Marco feels his face grow a little warmer but he smiles anyway.  
  
    “Not that the toilet talk isn’t positively riveting,” interrupts Levi in a flat monotone, “but don’t you have work to do?”  
  
    “Also, would you mind bringing me coffee later?” asks Hanji.  
  
    “It’s not his fault you demolished the coffee machine, Four-eyes.”  
  
    “But Marco makes better coffee—”  
  
    “Hanji, you don’t make coffee. You make liquid shit. And then, that shit congeals and clogs the machine until it’s completely useless. Now, all of us are stuck drinking diarrhea for the rest of eternity.”  
  
    Marco winces. “No coffee this morning, Levi, I presume?”  
  
    “Yeah! That’s why he’s so pissy—”  
  
    “Oi!”  
  
    “Oh, right, you’re always pissy. Oops!” Crash. “It isn’t nice to throw things! That was my favorite cactus!”  
  
    There is a loud clattering, followed by Hanji’s childish screams and a torrent of swears. A door opens. The screams grow steadily softer. Marco assumes the phone has been pushed from its position on the table and Levi is now chasing Hanji through the building.  
  
    He can’t stop himself from laughing at their antics as he ends the call and tucks the phone back into his pocket, taking another drag from his now very cold tea. He sinks down a little lower in his seat, running a hand over his face. Alright, I have class in an hour. I can get to the hospital in about ten minutes if I hurry…and it’s another fifteen minutes to the school…that gives me barely a half hour.  
  
    Marco takes a deep breath and does his best to shake away the tenseness in his shoulders. No use worrying about it. If he’s late, well…it won’t be the first time. Or, if he’s being honest with himself, the last. It will be fine. He reaches down for his bag. “Hey, Ymir?”  
  
    The freckled girl behind the counter grunts in acknowledgement. The day is slow. There are a handful of other students milling around the cafe in various states of vegetation. One kid is full-on passed out in the corner. Nothing out of the ordinary.  
  
    “I’m out,” Marco tells her, throwing the bag over his shoulders and going into the back room to grab his helmet.  
  
    “Finally.” Ymir just rolls  her eyes and shoves a cup into his chest as he passes. “For the road. Try not to choke on it.”  
  
    The cup is hot against his skin, and he can smell his favorite tea emanating from the lid. “Thanks.” He smiles, a full grin that has his coworker scowling and avoiding eye contact. He sneaks forward a step or two and kisses her lightly on the cheek. “You’re the best.”  
  
    With a laugh, he dances away from her half-hearted right hook, taking a drink from the cup and waving his fingers goodbye.  
  
———  
  
People have called me plenty of things — Jeanny boy (mother dearest), horseface (Eren), asshole (everyone else) — but there is one thing that no one has ever even uttered in my general direction.  
      
    In case you were curious, that one thing is “generous”.  
  
    “Please tell me, Jaeger, why the fuck would I do this for you?”  
  
    “Because you’re a good person?”  
  
    I snort.  
  
    Eren grimaces. “Yeah, okay, no. I get it. But still. Put on your sainthood for like, half an hour and take this to Armin. Please?”  
  
    I just raise an eyebrow at him over my shoulder and reach up to put my headphones back on. I had been in the process of very carefully not doing anything when he burst into the room a moment ago. I plan to go back to not doing anything. If possible, I would like to make a career out of it.  
  
    He isn’t having any of it. He throws himself on the desk in front of me, his body crumpling the papers that might have been important if I had actually been studying. “Please, Jean? Armin! You like Armin! Everyone likes Armin!”  
  
    “I barely know Armin.”  
  
    “Well, you don’t not like Armin, which is kind of a miracle as far as you’re concerned, if we’re being honest.”  
      
    “You know, Jaeger, this constant insulting thing isn’t really making me feel more inclined to run your errands for you.”  
  
    He bites his lip, hiding his head between his arm and the desk while he desperately thinks of a way to convince me. I can hear the gears turning in his brain. I can smell the fire as those gears overwork themselves.  
  
    With a sigh, I loop my headphones back around my neck. “Why can’t you just do it yourself?”  
  
    “I have a huge project due in, like, two days!”  
  
    “It isn’t due in a half hour. I don’t see what the problem is.”  
  
    “I have a meeting with the teacher in forty minutes, but I have to get all of my shit together and God knows how long that’s going to take.” That’s a fair point. Eren’s papers, photographs, and folders are littering the entire dorm room. It could take him the entire forty minutes just to figure out what the hell he’s looking for. He kicks me in the shin. “Come on. It’s your good deed for the month. Or the year. Whatever works with you.”  
  
    “I do plenty of good deeds.”  
  
    His green gleam with hope. “And what about this one?”  
  
    “No.”  
      
    “Why?”  
  
    “Because I can’t fucking stand you.”  
  
    Eren scowls and sits up on the desk, deep in thought. I ignore him, putting my headphones back on and turning up the music as high as it will go. A moment later, Eren forcefully removes them, tugging them off of my head and holding them out of my reach. He’s shorter than I am, but seeing as how I am currently slouched down in my chair as much as my spine will physically allow, I’d have to actually get up in order to thwart him. And that just isn’t worth it.  
  
    “Marco,” he says flatly.  
  
    Whatever I am expecting him to say, that is not it. “What?”  
  
    “Marco,” he repeats, and I see the devilish gleam growing in his eyes again.  
  
    “Yeah, I heard you the first time,” I snap. “I’m just a little confused about what he has to do with me doing shit for you.” For the life of me, I try to sound disinterested.  
  
    He isn’t fooled. “I have two classes with him.”  
  
    “Great, good for you.” I mean, I’m a little jealous, because Marco seems pretty cool. But Sasha and Connie both overstated my relationship with the guy. Like, somewhere between the coffee shop and the campus, Marco blossomed from caffeine dealer and potential friend to the other half of my Romeo & Juliet-esque love story. It wasn’t even that they jumped to conclusions, they just got really excited and BAM!  
  
    Jean has a lover.  
  
    Completely ignoring the fact that I am, in fact, straight and have met the man in question a total of twice. Because love is irrational, or something.  
  
    Eren has yet to make his point, so I just look at him expectantly. He grins at me. “If you do this for me, I might _casually_ bring up your name in conversation. I might also _casually_ comment on how you are an okay guy — totally not a loser with no friends — and then might _casually_ suggest you two hang out.”  
  
    “Casually.”  
  
    “ _Casually_.”  
  
    “Eren, I’m not so desperate for friendship that you can convince me to go all the way to the hospital in exchange for the chance to be friends with the guy who makes my coffee.”  
  
    “Jean,” he says through almost gritted teeth. “It’s an opportunity to increase your pathetic social circle by one. This happens, like, once in a lifetime. You have not made a single friend other than Connie and Sasha, and that’s just because they’re the only ones dumb enough to get within your kill-zone.” He narrows his eyes suddenly, and then his expression becomes far too innocent for my tastes. He sets his hand on top of the coffee pot gently. “You know, I bet Marco would be willing to give a discount on coffee if you guys were friends.”  
  
    Hook.  
  
    “He’s a pretty nice guy,” Eren continues. “And he’s worked there for a while. He must make good stuff.”  
  
    Line.  
  
    “He might even give you coffee…for free.”  
  
    Sinker.  
  
    College student + free anything = deal.  
  
    I’m out the door within the next fifteen minutes.  
  
~  
  
Can I just say that I really hate hospitals?  
  
    I really hate hospitals.  
  
    I know that isn’t a special thing, because who the fuck likes hospitals? No one, that’s who. Even the doctors that I pass look like they hate hospitals.  
  
    But I maintain that I hate them a little more than the average guy. Actually, a lot more. Hospitals terrify me. And for a very good reason.  
  
    Shadows.  
  
    I walk up to the woman at the reception desk and clear my throat. She looks up from her paper work and beams at me. “Hello, there. How can I help you?”  
  
    At this point, there is very little that can help me. I scratch the back of my neck and hold up the bag that Eren had shoved into my hands on my way out of the door. “I’m looking for Armin? Arlert.” I don’t know why I specify which Armin, because no way in hell there are two Armins, but whatever.  
  
    The receptionist thinks about it for a moment. “He should be on the second floor somewhere. Hold on a moment.” I try to keep the fidgeting to a minimum as she looks up something on her computer. “Try room 215, and if he isn’t there he’ll be in the staff room.”  
  
    “Thanks,” I mutter before turning away. Elevator or stairs…  
  
    My eyes flicker to the stairs. My pulse races. I see inky blackness flooding from underneath the door. My chest tightens. A passing nurse looks at me nervously, which I understand because I’m staring at the completely normal stair well in horror, but I just clear my throat again and punch the button from the elevator.  
  
    The shadows are the real reason I avoid hospitals. And cemeteries. And pretty much anywhere there are a lot of dead or dying people. The shadows flock there in droves, and they do not like me.  
  
    The shadows, much like the chains, have been there for as long as I can remember. Unlike the chains, they are a massive pain the ass. Sure, seeing the lines can feel a little invasive, like I’m constantly breaching everyones privacy, but I got over that a long time ago. And I can control that now, at least to some extent.  
  
    There is no controlling the shadows. They do what they want. And they usually want to hurt me.  
  
    In all actuality, the shadows are almost always there, just hanging around, waiting to cause trouble. But they’re usually just smoke, nothing more than a minor annoyance at worst. It’s only when someone is approaching death that they become really bothersome.  
  
    And, lucky me, Armin volunteers with hospice.  
  
    When the elevator doors open, for a moment all I can see are the red eyes of the shadow that’s waiting for me. It’s almost solid, vaguely humanoid, with smoke radiating off of its charred skin like liquid nitrogen. Its eyes are completely red, no pupil, no iris. Just blood red. I can’t see its mouth, but I know it has one. My arms and legs are peppered with small scars from razor sharp teeth.  
  
    It doesn’t attack. Sometimes they don’t. It just makes an ominous clicking noise, then a long groan, and I’m reminded of that one door in every horror film with the creaky hinges. I want to shudder, but I know that wont help. I stay completely still as it takes a step forward into the elevator, then another, until I’m at danger of hitting it’s forehead with my chin. It sniffs the air around me, more like an animal than a person. I hold my breath. I don’t let it out, not even when I feel its hand wrap around my arm. The hand is rough — not calloused, but burnt to a crisp — and its nails prick into  my skins enough to make me wince. It’s grip tightens, and the groans becomes louder, louder, louder, agonizing, miserable, terrible. I can’t help it. I slam my hands over my ears and rush out of the elevator.  
  
    Should have taken the stairs.  
  
    The nurse in the man sitting in a chair by the elevator looks at me, alarmed. I see him check my wrist for the bracelet that labels me a patient, probably of the psychiatric ward, but I just shove the hand that isn’t holding on to the plastic bag and keep walking, trying to calm myself down.  
  
    More creatures linger around the second floor like vermin. Some of them look at me with beady eyes while I pass. Some, the bigger ones, ignore me completely. No one else knows they’re there. I do my best to walk through the hallways without constantly checking over my shoulder or twitching every time I turn a corner.  
  
    That become impossible when they start following me.  
  
    215. 215. 215. For the love of God, I don’t know you, Armin, but you better be the best person on the fucking planet.  
  
    As more of the shadows collect behind me, I can feel their presence heavily on my back, a physical weight. My shirt starts sticking to my skin with sweat. The little fuckers are everywhere. The entire floor is crawling with them. They topple out of closets, bathrooms, hospital rooms. The pour out from behind chairs and desks and gurneys. I don’t miss the point where the weight shifts from heavy to unbearable, slipping from morbid curiosity to sinister.  
  
    I swear to God, if I am in this hallway for one more second —  
  
    215.  
  
    Abandoning all pretenses of grace, I hurdle into the hospital room and shut the open door behind me. I lean against the wall with my eye closed and take a deep breath. In. Out. In. Out. In. In. In. _Out_.  
  
    “Armin?” I call, opening me eyes.  
  
    Unless Armin is an old woman on a hospital bed or someone wearing a black cloak and carrying a scythe, Armin is sure as fuck not in this room.  
  
    The sound I make is embarrassing, as is the fact that I slam my head against the stone wall in shock. But at this point, I don’t really care. “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter, one hand pressed against the throbbing bump that’s growing on my skull.  
  
    Whoever gets a kick out of dressing up like the Grim Reaper in old ladies’ hospital rooms doesn’t even react to my spasm. In fact, they don’t even move until I take a step forward. “Who the fuck are you?” I demand.  
  
    Slowly, like they aren’t sure who I’m talking to, they turn their head towards me. The hood of the cloak is huge, and their entire face is shadowed, and the entire effect is morbid and disconcerting. That’s probably the idea. Expect that I am pissed off, and no one in safe from my wrath. Not even this terrifying…thing. “Yeah, you,” I snap. “Who are you? What are you even doing here?”  
  
    There is a long, tense silence. Slowly, painfully slowly, they hold out the scythe in their left hand, motioning towards the woman. She’s old, almost unbelievably so. Like, this lady is a fossil, barely more than bone. She’s hooked up to so many machines that I can’t tell which wires go where.  
  
    Among the wires are her ties. They’re weak and brittle, and I know that she’s dying.  
  
    “This is a sick joke,” I say, but my mouth is dry. Is this a joke? This has to be a joke. I take another step forward to…I don’t know. To beat this thing up or something. If I can hit it, it’s real. I don’t get very far before something on the ground draws my attention. There is a huge circle drawn around the room on the linoleum floor, bright red. The color contrasts with the white tile so much that it’s a little hard to believe I didn’t notice it before.  
  
    To be fair, other things held my interest.  
  
    “What is this?” I ask, bending down slightly.  When I reach down to touch the mark, they move to stop me, but they don’t have to worry. I recoil. “Is that blood.” It isn’t a question. I clasp my hand over my mouth, horrified. What is this. What is happening. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.  
  
    Suddenly, like they hear something that I can’t, the person snaps their attention from my minor [read: major] breakdown back to the dying woman. I’m almost hyperventilating. I can’t do anything as they gather the fragile ties in their hands like wheat and then —  
  
    The ties are cut.  
  
    The heart beat flatlines.  
  
    She’s dead.  
      
    I stare at her body in shock. Frozen.  
  
    The other person doesn’t hesitate. They move from the other side of the bed towards the door. I feel fingertips ghost over my shoulder, almost comfortingly, but I can’t react. I can’t even move.  
  
    They’re gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah.
> 
> Please tell me what you think, and give me critique! This is me working through a six month long writers block, so everything helps. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco and Jean deal with their shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd (also kind of rushed because I wrote it in two hours)
> 
> I'm so sorry it's been so long and this is so short! I will try to update with a longer chapter soon! I'm really struggling with writer's block, and I'm just not feeling really motivated. :/ 
> 
> Please, give me opinions and critique. It will help me so much, I promise.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Levi!” Marco mutters into the phone. “Levilevilevi…” He repeats the word over and over again as his panic rises. The ringing continues. “If you are cleaning right now, I will…I’ll…I don’t know what I’ll do.” Threatening isn’t necessarily in his nature. “But I will be very upset with you if you ignore this call in favor of mopping the kitchen again.”  
  
    Finally, finally, he answers. “What?”  
  
    “Levi!”  
  
    “Whoa, Freckles, are you okay?”  
  
    “Nope. Not at all.” Marco is sitting outside of the hospital, his back pressing against the brick wall as he hides among the bushes and flowers that someone has planted in order to make the building look more welcoming or something. The robe has been shoved into his bag, folded neatly among his textbooks despite his growing panic. He runs a hand over his face, his hair is disarray. “There was a problem. Like, quite a big problem, actually.”  
  
    “Alright.” Levi still sounds completely uninterested. There is a moment of awkward  silence while Marco waits for him to say something. “Are you going to tell me about it?” he asks gruffly.  
  
    Marco huffs, tapping his fingers on his knee. “I’m…not really sure how to explain it?”  
  
    “How badly did you fuck up?”  
  
    “No! I mean, I didn’t! The job is done, that part was okay.” He runs his hand through his hair, making it even more of a mess than before.  
  
    “Then what’s the problem?”  
  
    Marco takes a deep breath. “Someone saw me.”  
  
    …  
  
    “What do you mean?”  
  
    “I mean, I was there, and they were there, and they saw me.”  
  
    He can practically hear Levi processing this information on the other end of the line. “That’s a pretty bad fuck up,” Levi almost growls. “That’s what the stupid costume is for. It’s not just so that you can have a good backup for a Halloween party!”  
  
    “I know, but—”  
  
    “That’s an amateur mistake, Freckles.”  
  
    Marco would have bristled if he weren’t so flustered. As it is, he can barely string words together. “I had the cloak on! I swear.” He sighs. “I was in the room. I set up the ward. Everything was fine. And then, this guy rushes into the room, kind of panicky—”  
  
    “Panicky?”  
  
    “Yeah.” Marco tries to remember details beyond the blank surprise he had experienced. “Like, he was frantic and sweaty and out-of-breath, and he didn’t even notice me at first. But as soon as he gets a good look around the room he’s asking who I am and what I’m doing there and if it’s a joke. He saw the blood ward I put down, and I think he might have been able to see the tethers, too, but I’m not sure.”  
  
    There is silence on the other end of the line, and Marco isn’t sure whether that’s because Levi is processing this information or because he’s pissed beyond belief.  
  
    Finally. “Did he see your face?”  
  
    “No.” Marco scratches the back of his head. “I had the hood up.”  
  
    “At least you’re not a total idiot.”  
      
    “Thanks, Levi. I really appreciate the snark in the middle of my minor breakdown,” he replies weakly.  
  
    More silence. Marco can hear Levi tapping his fingers on his desk as he thinks. “Would you be able to recognize this guy if you saw him?”  
  
    “Yeah.” He clutches the hem of his t-shirt with weary hands. “I know him, actually. He’s stopped by the coffee shop a few times.”  
  
    “Name?”  
  
    “Jean.”  
  
    “Just Jean?”  
  
    “Jean…something with a K…or maybe a C? I forgot his last name, I’ll be honest. It was kind of weird.” He bites his lip. “He’s a college student, I know that.”  
  
    “So, if you needed to, you could track  his ass down?”  
  
    “I mean, yeah?” Marco coughs nervously. “I think. I don’t know, he might be in the psych ward after this. But if I needed to, yeah, I could find him.”  
  
    “Good, because you need to.”  
  
    His stomach clenches. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hello, I make your coffee sometimes. You saw me collect the soul of a dying woman the other day. How does that make you feel?’” His voice rises an octave while his panic sets in. Or, rather, while his panic grows, because he’s been in a state of panic for at least ten minutes now. “That’s kind of a large bomb to drop.”  
  
    “I’m not asking you to be the kid’s therapist,” huffs Levi. “I honestly don’t care about his mental state. But if he really did see you, I want to know why.”  
  
    “But what if he doesn’t know why?”  
  
    “Then he’s useless. I’ll probably just get rid of him.”  
  
    Silence.  
  
    “For fuck’s sake, I’m kidding.” Levi sighs. “Just, get to know him, collect dirt, figure out what he knows, if anything. This could all just be a fluke.”  
  
    Marco remembers the look of horror of Jean’s face and closes his eyes to block out the memory. “I don’t think so.”  
  
    “Well,” Levi snips. There’s a pause. “Get close to him. We’ll figure out the rest when we get there. I’ll talk to Erwin.”  
  
    “Alright,” Marco says hesitantly. “I should go. I’m late enough as it is.”  
  
    “Who do you have?”  
  
    “Pixis.”  
  
    “You’ll be fine. He won’t care. If anyone gives you trouble, tell me or Erwin. We’ll deal with it.”  
  
    He takes a deep breath. “Thanks, Levi. I’ll see what I can do about Jean.”  
  
    “Keep me updated.”  
  
    “Of course. See  you.” He knows better than to wait for a goodbye from Levi and hangs up, tapping his phone against his lips for a moment. Thinking. He groans in frustration and jumps to his feet, grabs his bag, and sets off for class.  
  
___  
  
“Jean?”  
  
    Everything is hazy. I hear voices, muted, but frantic. My brain hears them, but it doesn’t really do so well understanding what they’re saying. My body feels numb. I feel disconnected from my limbs. Someone might be shaking me, but I’m not sure.  
  
    Suddenly, my face stings, and everything shifts harshly back into focus.  
  
    I’m outside of the hospital room now, sitting on the linoleum floor. Doctors and nurses are pouring into the poor old woman’s room, standing by her beside, checking her vitals, trying to save her. I don’t have the heart to tell them that she isn’t coming back. There isn’t anything holding her here any more.  
  
    “Jean!”  
  
    My gaze snaps forward, and I see a blonde man with his hand raised to slap me again. I jerk backwards, propelling my head right into the bars of the chair behind me, like my head could feel any worse. Great. The best day. Woohoo. I groan and clutch my head with shaking hands.  
      
    “Jean, are you okay?”  
  
    My vision is blurred by [manly] tears of pain, but I blink away the fog and look the blonde kid in the eye. His hair is long, brushing his shoulders, and half of it is tied back out of his bright blue eyes. It’s Armin, I think. I’ve only seen the guy, like, three times, but he knows who I am and he looks familiar enough, so it’s probably him. “I mean, I’ve been better,” I tell him. He looks like he’s about to do something doctorly. I shoot him a glare. “If you ask me how many fingers you’re holding up, I am not responsible for my actions.”  
  
    His mouth snaps shut. He smiles slightly. “Well, you’re just as taciturn as ever. You’re probably fine.” He grabs me under my arms and heaves me up to my feet, keeping his hands on my shoulders until he’s sure I won’t face plant onto the ground. His face grows stern. “What are you doing here?” he chastises.  
  
    “Uh…”  
  
    “You’re not allowed to be in the rooms without permission!”  
  
    I hold the bag out towards him robotically. “Jaeger told me to bring you this.”  
  
    Armin blinks at the package in surprise.  
  
    “He had an appointment or something,” I explain flatly.  
  
    He takes it from me carefully, like it might explode. Or maybe like I might explode. Yeah, probably that one. “Well, thank you very much,” he says. “But you still shouldn’t have been in the room.”  
  
    “The receptionist said you would be here.”  
  
    “Oh. Well, I wasn’t.” Armin holds the bag to his chest and nibbles his lip. Through the plastic of the bag, I can see that I just got myself in a shitload of trouble to deliver this kids lunch. Like, I literally just saw someone die in the midst of being a delivery boy and I don’t even have a tip to look forward to.  
  
    What is this shit.  
  
    I sigh. “Look, did I get you in trouble?”  
  
    “Not yet,” he answers, thinking. “I can probably tell them that you were a family member or something and they won’t look into it too much. It’s nothing I can’t handle.” His voice is firm.  
  
    I feel bad for making him lie on my behalf, but it’s not my problem, so I just say, “Okay,” and call it a day. My eyes flicker towards the woman’s bed, to them machines, to the ground. The circle of blood that I know was there is smoking, evaporating into nothingness. But the doctors don’t pay any attention to it. I’d be surprised if they can even see it.  
  
    “Jean?”  
  
    “Hmm?”  
  
    Armin is looking up at me worriedly. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look a little…freaked.”  
  
    “Well, I did just see an old woman die.”  
  
    He doesn’t look impressed. “And who’s fault is that?”  
  
    “Jaeger’s.” Because it sure as fuck isn’t mine.  
  
    He sighs, throwing his hands in the air. “Thanks for bringing this for me, Jean.”  
  
    I would say “no problem” but it was kind of a problem. Like, a big problem. So I stick with a “Don’t mention it.” I look away from his face, inspecting the hallway. The shadows aren’t as numerous as they had been a moment ago. They certainly aren’t as excitable. But there they are, and I still don’t like them. I’d probably be alright on my own, but I decide to play it safe. “Will you walk me out? I’m not sure I can find the entrance on my own.” If I’m with someone else, maybe they won’t bother me.  
  
    “Sure thing.” He doesn’t question me, despite the fact that the hospital entrance is pretty much right around the corner from the elevator. Armin just adjusts the bag in his grip and leads me towards onward. May the gods bless him.  
  
    “Take care, Jean,” he says when we get to the door. I’m nice enough to acknowledge his farewell with a wave. I don’t even tell him how lame it sounds. I’m on a roll with the niceties todays.  
  
    I pull my keys out of my pocket, but before I open my car I take a moment to reflect on whatever the fuck has happened in the last half hour. To an outsider, I am just some random college kid staring into space out of a hospital. They don’t realize the intense emotional turmoil I’m busy working through.  
  
    Honestly, I can’t make any sense of what’s going on right now, and my brain hurts just from trying to sort through all of the weird. There is only one thing that my brain understands.  
      
    This is all Eren’s fault.  
  
    “Fuck you, Eren,” I say, before getting into my car and driving back to campus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully, the friendship will blossom in the next chapter.
> 
> Feel free to ask questions, critique, or point out errors!
> 
> And thanks for reading :)


	5. Slipping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean makes a trifle, him and Eren are maybekindoffriendsnotreally, and, hey, look, it's Marco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd
> 
> If I could just write dialogue all day...that would make me obscenely happy.
> 
> In case you don't know, a trifle is a dessert made of layers of fruit, custard/pudding, sponge cake, and whipped cream. It's kind of amazing.

“Oh, God.”  
  
    I’m in the dorm kitchen. I have no idea what time it is. I have no idea who just walked into the room and completely ruined my concentration (although I can hazard a guess). All I know is that this stupid pie filling does not have the right constancy and it’s making my life miserable and if that isn’t an accurate representation of my day than I don’t know what is.  
  
    I manage to tear my glare from the offending cream filling to the guy at the door, my killing aura on 110%. It’s Jaeger. Of course it’s Jaeger. He doesn’t see my glare, not that it would have mattered because he’s developed an almost inhumane tolerance of it. He staring in horror at the bowl in my hands. His eyes slip to my apron, to the flour covering the counter, to the baked goods on the table. “Is that banana bread?” he asks warily, taking a step forward and inspecting it, one hand held out nervously like it’s an explosive and not a bundle of wheat and yeast.  
  
    “Peach,” I correct curtly.  
  
    His green eyes finally snap to my face, concerned. “What the fuck happened?”  
  
    “What are you talking about?” I snap at him, returning to wrestling with this stupid pie.  
  
    “The last time you baked was when you got back from that week long stay at your parents house.”  
  
    “Can’t a guy bake without being psychoanalyzed?” I slam to bowl on the counter, ignoring the filling that spills out onto the counter. “You get delicious peach bread, why the fuck are you complaining?”  
  
    Despite the fact that we hate each other, we’ve developed an odd sort of camaraderie over the past few months. Somewhere between beating each other senseless and breaking each others noses (actually, just him breaking my nose, but that was once, and I was caught off-guard), we’ve grown to care about each others psychological wellbeing. Like, bleeding profusely and groaning on the floor? Whatever. Going through a hard breakup? Bust out the stupid movies and popcorn, we have feelings to deal with.  
  
    So when Eren continues to stand there with his arms crossed and his toe tapping, waiting for me to tell him all of my shit, I’m not surprised. But this is his fault, and I’m not holding back.  
  
    “Maybe I’m just pissed off that I had to run your stupid errands for you,” I snap. Okay, I’m holding back, but only because if I told him why I am actually churning out the confectionary delights on autopilot he’d have me committed to the local asylum.  
  
    But sucks to be me, because he knows I’m holding back. He points to the red velvet cake sitting on its stand. “This icing is homemade,” he says flatly, like I don’t fucking know. “Usually, running my errands would equate snickerdoodles. A batch of cupcakes, _maybe_. You could open up your own bakery with all of this shit. And it’s been, like, two days. What are you even doing?” I don’t say anything, so he walks over to the refrigerator and looks inside. He blinks. “Is that a trifle?”  
  
    “Yes.”  
  
    “You made trifle.”  
  
    “I made trifle.”  
  
    “Did you make the custard yourself?”  
  
    …  
  
    “Shit, Jean, what the hell?” He’s beyond concerned.  
  
    Actually, looking at the aftermath of my day, I’m concerned myself. I hold my head in my hands, elbows on the counter. “I think I’m going insane,” I mutter into my hands, quietly enough that if he isn’t listening, he won’t hear.  
      
    But the shithead is listening. He pushes the bowl out of the way and sits on the counter next to me. “Is this about the therapy?” he asks.  He knows about the therapy, although he doesn’t necessarily knows why I have to go. For a while, he thought it was just for family problems or some shit. Actually, I probably needed therapy for that, too. But I’ve had enough nightmares since then that he’s got the jist.  
  
    “It’s…” I pause. “Yeah, sort of.” I mean, it pertains to it. Probably.  
  
    He looks at me, shifting uncomfortably. “You wanna talk about it?”  
  
    “God, no.” I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “I’ve already got one therapist, I don’t need two.” He laughs slightly, and I think I see a flash of relief. Neither of us are particularly adept at dealing with shit that junk food and Anchorman can’t fix. Eren has helped me through enough nightmare aftermath to know that my crazy is way over his head.  
  
    But I’m not crazy. I’m not. I have clung to that for the past 12 years. It’s only now that I feel like it’s a lie, and it’s a lie that I would happily believe if I didn’t feel it slipping away from me. It’s like I can legitimately feel my sanity slipping through my fingers. “I just…”  
  
    Eren doesn’t say anything. He just waits for me to pull together a coherent sentence, dipping his finger in the abandoned pie filling before I can swat his hand away. Whatever. That pie wasn’t going to work out anyway.  
  
    I sigh heavily. “I’ve never thought of myself as someone who had a loose grasp on reality, you know? Like, despite the fact that my parents think I have a severe case of crazy, I’ve never thought that about myself. But now…”  
  
    He waits a moment to see if I’ll continue the thought. “Did something happen at the hospital?” he asks.  
  
    Well, that’s an understatement. Shit hit the fan at the hospital. “Yeah.” You could say something happened.  
  
    Eren bites his lip. “Armin told me what happened, with the old woman.”  
  
    Of course he did. I don’t say anything.  
  
    Hesitantly, he continues. “Does it have something to do with that?”  
  
    “I’m not all torn up because some woman I don’t know kicked the bucket.” Which is true. It’s not a direct answer, and I know Eren knows that, but still. It’s true. “I…Ever since I started going to therapy, nothing has changed. Like, it hasn’t gotten any better. I don’t even know if the therapy could help at me at all. It isn’t that sort of thing…but it hasn’t gotten any worse, either. And then…well.”  
  
    “It got worse.”  
  
    “Fuck yeah.”  
  
    “Well….” Eren isn’t looking at me. He looking far away, thinking. “I’m not one for touchy feely heart-to-heart and that shit. But of you ever think that…talking about it would help, I think I could handle it.” The tips of his ears turn red, embarrassed.  
  
    He could. I honestly believe that he could. But if I really am crazy, I’d rather keep that to myself.  
  
    And if I’m not…I’d rather not drag anyone into it.  
  
    “Thanks,” I tell him, and I probably mean it.  
  
    We sit there for another minute in silence before Eren slides off of the counter. “Come on,” he says, grabbing the plastic wrap and covering up the bread with precise movements.  
  
    I follow his lead, pushing the bowl with the pie filling in the sink. If someone doesn’t eat it, I’ll take care of it later. I put the lid on the cake stand over the red velvet and push it away from the corner. I rarely eat what I bake. Everyone in the dorms knows that it’s free to be eaten by whomever, as long as the last person does the dishes. Which usually means that Sasha gets 80% of it. And also Sasha does a lot of dishes. I watch Eren pick up his bag from where he dropped it. “Where are you going?”  
  
    “You need coffee. I need coffee. Let’s get coffee,” he says shortly.  
  
    “I’d rather have tequila.”  
  
    “How miserable do you want to be during your 8 o’ clock class tomorrow?”  
  
    I give an involuntary shudder as I wipe down the counter. “Let me grab money.”  
  
    “Fuck no, my treat.” His chin is set stubbornly. I know better than to refuse. “But you might want to take the apron off.”  
  
    “I think it suits me,” I tell him, my hand trailing over the ruffles at the bottom. I didn’t want to spend money on one, so I just stole one of my mom’s. This was the only one that wasn’t floral. “You know, fashion forward.” Eren just laughs while I take off the apron and shove it in a drawer.    
  
    “Sure. Next Halloween, you can dress up like my grandma and give everyone cookies.” Eren snorts, and I punch him in the arm before we head out the door.  
      
    “Don’t act like you wouldn’t be excited. My cookies are amazing.”  
  
    “Better than Mikasa’s, that’s for sure,” agrees Eren. We both shudder. His sister had attempted to make him chocolate chip cookies once for his birthday. She watched him like a hawk while we both ate one, ignored our cringing while we swallowed, and wouldn’t leave until we gave her an affirming smile.  
  
    We tossed the cookies when she left. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.  
  
    Or us.  
  
    Mostly me.  
  
    We walk off campus in relative silence. I don’t know if Eren has finally shut up because he knows that I’m too deep in thought to contribute much to the conversation or because he’s thinking himself. The sun has gone down, and the wind breeches my sweater and causes my arms to erupt in goosebumps. It’s getting closer and closer to winter break, and a large part of me in dreading it. I won’t have an excuse not to stay with my parents. We’ll have “family bonding” and “family discussions”. Even when you like your parents, that’s the worst.  
  
    But another part of me revels in the slightly chilled air, the warm smells, the blankets and sweaters and hot chocolate. This has always been my favorite season, and being outside and reminded that fall is tipping towards winter takes just a little bit off the tension out of my shoulders.  
  
    The walk to the coffee shop passes too quickly, and it’s only then that I realize that my feet have subconsciously taken me to the one where Marco works, and that Eren has followed without complaint.  
  
    It’s fairly late now, and the only person in the shop that I can see is the person behind the counter. It’s not Marco or the blonde girl from before this time. The girl is tall, even taller than Eren, with dark skin, freckles, and flat brown eyes. She looks enough like Marco that they could be related, but where his face is generally warm and inviting, this girl feels closed off. Her freckles aren’t as cute as his, either.  
  
    I can admit that his freckles are aesthetically pleasing without the need to defend my sexuality.  
  
    She isn’t paying any attention, but when the bell rings above the door, she looks up and smirks at us, like she’s too flippant for a genuine smile. “Hey! What do you want?”  
  
    “Ymir!” someone chastises from the back.  
      
    “Sorry,” she says. Clearly not sorry.  
  
    Not that I care. I prefer taciturn and curt. Good manners are exhausting to deal with.  
  
    Eren orders something overly complicated that I forget as soon as he finishes. Ymir looks like she might kick him in the face. As soon as he tells her his name, he starts to spell it for her, but she’s already started to write _Aaron_ on his cup. She rolls her eyes and crosses it out. “My bad,” she says, and writes _Asswipe_ instead.  
  
    I order the same thing I always do. I’m a creature of habit. The only different about this time is that she starts writing _Jean_ before I’ve even finished telling her my name.  
  
    I mildly surprised. Unlike Eren, I’ve given up correcting people. It’s nice. Eren looks offended. One of the few things we’ve managed to bond over is how often people misspell our names. Sure, we have friends named Armin and Mikasa, but at least those are phonetic. Like, my parents are French, so I kind of get it, but I don’t know what Eren’s parents were thinking. Just name him Aaron and save him a lifetime of regrets and butchered pronunciations.  
  
    Eren doesn’t see what Ymir has written on his cup until we sit down. “What do you expect?” I tell him when he glares at her. She’s gone back to messing with her phone and doesn’t notice. I try to hide my grin, since he’s currently enabling my caffeine problem. “I would have called you an asswipe, too, if I had to make that order.”  
  
    He kicks me so hard in the shin that I jerk my knee up in surprise and slam it into the table. Eren laughs for a good two minutes while I put my head on the table and wait for my eyes to stop watering. “You can’t even blame me for that,” he says, grinning.  
  
    I stare at him incredulously. “Of course I can. It’s your fault.” I rub my leg. “Shin kick, knee jerk. Action, reaction.”  
  
    “Yeah, well, the effect is getting your girly ass tears all over the table,” he jibes, pushing a napkin towards me.  
  
    Grumbling, I sop up my leaking eye juice. “I wasn’t fucking crying.”  
  
    “You should save that,” he tells me when I start to get up to throw the crumpled napkin away. “I hear idiot tears have pseudo-magical properties.”  
  
    “Fuck off.” I throw it at him. It bounces harmlessly off of his shoulder, which is less satisfying than I want it to be, because it’s a napkin and not actually a projectile weapon. He tosses it back to me with a grimace and I throw it in the trash.  
  
    The bell above the door rings cheerfully as I sit back down at out table, and my eyes automatically flick up to creep on whoever has walked into the shop.  
  
    Guess who it is.  
  
    “Hey, Ymir,” greets Marco, waving. His hair is rumpled, he looks slightly out of breath, and he has a motorcycle helmet under one arm. He looks good. Alive. Better than me, not that that’s a hard bar to meet. I’ve barely gotten any sleep the last few days. My skin is pale, the area under my eyes is so dark I look like Eren has broken my nose again, and I’m pretty sure I have flour in my hair. It’s a good thing I don’t have anyone to impress.  
  
    Ymir’s eye glitter mischievously as he approaches the counter. “Why, Marco!” she says quiet loudly. Her voice is overly theatrical, dramatic, completely different than when she took our order. “What on earth brings you here?” She grins at him, fluttering her eyelashes.  
  
    “I, uh…” He clears his throat. “I need to pick up my paycheck.”  
  
    She snorts and rolls her eyes. “Oi, Nanaba!”  
  
    “What?” shouts the voice from the back.  
  
    “Marco here dropped by to pick up his paycheck.” She waggles her eyebrows at him.  
  
    He turns enough that I can’t see his expression, but I’m pretty sure I see him flick her nose like a bad dog. Her grin doesn’t falter. She just ruffles his hair as he passed through the door to the back room.  
  
    “Weird,” says Eren, and I’m almost surprised to hear his voice. I’d kind of forgotten he was there.  
  
    “What?”  
  
    “That,” he clarifies, shoving his thumb towards the counter. “It was weird.”  
  
    I just shrug. “Does it matter?”  
  
    “It might.”  
  
    “If you go all photo-journalist on me right now I’m leaving.” He has a bad habit of looking too deeply into everything. Everything is a conspiracy. That last time this happened, he was very close to interrogating a woman who was “acting guilty” and asking if she was smuggling something. I mean, she had a dog in her purse, so I guess she was.  
  
    Point is, I’m not putting up with it.  
  
    Eren rolls his eyes and goes back to drinking his coffee. He doesn’t say anything until he sees Marco leave the back room. “Hey,” he greets lazily.  
  
    Marco smiles (surprise!) and walks over to where we’re sitting. “Eren, hey!” He looks at me. “And Jean! Hello. I didn’t know you two were friends.”  
  
    “Friends is a loose term,” I reply. “We’re roommates.”  
  
    “Sometimes we watch terrible television together, sometimes we get coffee, sometimes we beat each other to a pulp.” Eren shrugs. “It’s a fluid relationship.” His eyes shift from him to me and back again so quickly I almost feel like I imagined it. “You want to sit down?”  
  
    “I don’t want to intrude.”  
  
    I snort. “It’s not a date. In fact, 1-1 is a little too high of a Jaeger to Non-Jaeger ratio for me. You’d be helping.”  
  
    Marco ignores my cry of pain when Eren kicks my shin again, and I am eternally grateful. He just laughs a little. “If you’re sure,” he says, moving to take a seat. “I could spare a few moments.” He sets his helmet on the table and hugs it to his chest, his chin resting on top. He looks like a small child hugging a teddy bear. “How is your project going?” he asks.  
  
    Eren groans into his coffee. “It’s total shit.”  
  
    I snort again. Marco, who is apparently a better person, rushes to encourage him. “I’m sure that’s not true. From what you were telling me earlier it sounds really great!”  
  
    “I mean…the idea is good,” he admits. “It’s just that nothing is really coming together.”  
  
    “You should see him,” I say. “I woke up at 3 in the morning to find him pacing and muttering statistics under his breath.”  
  
    “Shut up, horseface,” Eren grumbles. “Not all of us have no life goals. Some people have real classes to take.”  
  
    “What are you studying?” Marco inquires.  
  
    “Nothing,” Eren replies before I have a chance to say anything.  
  
    I glare at him. “I’m undeclared.”  
  
    “Huh.” Marco thinks for a moment. “Do you have any clue what you want to do?”  
  
    “Nope.” I tap the lid of my coffee, the only sign that the subject makes me uncomfortable.  I have a lot of practice talking about this. My face remains impassive. “My parents are both lawyers, which is great and all. I’m just not interested.”  
  
    “You aren’t interested in anything,” points out Eren. “You need a career with good stability and no effort. Like librarian. Or McDonald’s cashier.”  
  
    “Plenty of people don’t know what they want to study when they get to college,” comforts Marco before I can exact any sort of revenge.  
  
    “What are you studying?” I ask. I’m taking mostly general required classes, and I haven’t seen him around. Admittedly, campus is huge, but it’s still kind of weird.  
  
    “Oh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m in engineering. Bio-med. This is my second year.”  
  
    My eyebrows shoot up, and Eren whistles appreciatively. “Wait, why are you in Eren’s shitty photography class?”  
  
    Marco just shrugs. “It’s fun. I counts as my aesthetic. And it’s nice to have a class that I don’t have to stress about as much. Although there is quite a bit more stress than I would have thought. It’s not something I’m naturally good at. Eren’s been helping me a lot.”  
  
    Eren laughs. “I’ve been there. The struggle is real.” He grins. “Besides, it’s a pleasure. You’re a pretty good friend to have.” I ignore the pointed look he gives me and drink my coffee.  
  
    He smiles in response. “Let’s see if you still think so after you help me struggle through finals.”  
  
    “How about you help me with math and we call it even?”  
  
    “I think I’d actually feel a lot better then.” Marco frowns (not really, but it’s not a smile, which is as close as he gets). “I feel bad making you help me so much when I can’t do anything in return.”  
  
    “Honestly, it’s not a big deal.” Eren runs a hand through his already disheveled hair. “But if you really want to, some help in the math department would be a gift from above.” Eren’s underselling himself. It may not come naturally to him (very little does), but he’s stubborn enough to push through. Not to mention he’s friends with Armin. He looks at me. “Jean and I are in the same class, and neither of us knows shit.” Ah.  
  
    Don’t you think I don’t see what you’re doing, Jaeger. You are not subtle.  
  
    Marco just rolls with it. “I can help you both. I’d really like that actually.” He smiles at me. I smile back. Eren stares. “It would be nice to hang out with you more.”  
  
    I am almost certain that I am blushing like an idiot, but Marco is digging through his bag and doesn’t notice. “Actually, let me give you my number, just in case.”  
  
    “What if I’m, like, a serial killer or something,” I muse as he hands me his phone. I type in my information and hand it back.  
  
    “Stripper, serial killer. These are not good impressions you’re leaving.” He types a few words, hits send, and I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. “There. All done.” With another smile, he stands up and grabs his helmet. “I’d better get going.”  
  
    “It was nice seeing you,” says Eren.  
  
    “Yeah, later,” I offer.  
      
    “See you soon!” Marco leaves.  
  
    Eren is grinning at me. “See? I told you I’d do it _casually_.”  
  
    I grin into my coffee. “Shut the fuck up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Please let me know any mistakes, and tell me what you think. :)


End file.
